the war was over, in a million years, and little Marie asked, ‘What was your war like, Auntie Vi?’ she would tell her, ‘Drab, queen. Very drab.’
But it wasn’t only the stations, she frowned. Passenger trains never ran on time now. Indeed, men and women not in uniform were asked most pointedly not to use them. Is your journey really necessary? the posters demanded accusingly, making it downright unpatriotic for a civilian to even think of occupying a seat on a passenger train.
Vi nodded and smiled at the young soldier and the palefaced young girl who stood beside him. You smiled at everyone now. You cared about other people and tried to be kind to them, even though they were strangers you would probably never meet again. It had taken a war to do that, Vi realized; though she wouldn’t mind betting that on the day peace came, all the caring would end and people would go back to minding their own business again, just as they had before it started. And it would be the same with railway stations. Once the war was over, they would be clean and bright, with everything freshly painted and flowers planted in the tubs. And people going on seaside holidays would have forgotten how stations had once been larger than life, almost; places of meeting and parting, from which dusty, crowded trains had borne servicemen and women to who knew where.
The young soldier and his girl were soon to part. Now, they smiled, standing with fingers entwined, bodies touching, and even when he left her the smile would remain and she would save her tears until his train was out of sight, trying not to think of the brave goodbye that might be their last.
Vi jerked back her shoulders. She had whispered her own last goodbye at a Liverpool dockyard gate, though she had not known it. Two months ago on an innocent April afternoon, yet already she had lived through a lifetime of sorrow. Now another life was about to begin, one in which she was no more than a surname and number, a woman who had lifted her hand in salute and sworn allegiance to King and country. For as long as the war lasted, she would be a part of the Royal Navy and there could be no remembered yesterdays, no thoughts of tomorrow. One day at a time was how it now must be, and this one day she was adrift, tired and hungry, with new flat-heeled shoes that hurt like hell.
Briefly she closed her eyes, mentally peeling off the scratchy black stockings, lowering her feet inch by beautiful inch into a bowl of cool water. It made her think of bath night at Lyra Street; of the ritual carrying-in of the tub and filling it from pans and kettles set to boil on bright red coals. Then the joys of Vinolia soap and towels hung to warm on the fireguard and flames dancing on her nakedness. Seven Lyra Street. All she had loved, wiped out in a second. It was the reason she was here now, standing bemused in this ill-fitting uniform, black and white all over, like a penguin grown tall and lanky. It was as if she stood in a noisy limbo; all the yesterdays had gone as if they had never been and all the tomorrows were no more than a tantalizing promise. It was why she was adrift with a travel warrant the RTO must stamp. It was the cause of her sore toes and blistered heel and empty, aching stomach. One vicious second, that was all it had taken. Funny, really.
The RTO’s office was a small prefabricated hut with a sign on the door that instructed her to knock and walk in. Inside, it was lit by a single bulb wrapped round with a brown-paper shade and furnished with three wooden chairs and a counter on which stood two telephones and a litter of timetables and pads. Its walls were almost covered by official posters urging all who read them to Dig For Victory, Save For Victory, Resist The Squanderbug, Join The Wrens And Free A Man For The Fleet and remember that Careless Talk Costs Lives and Walls Have Ears. From every small uncovered space, Mr Chad poked down his long nose to demand, Wot, no leave? Wot, no fags? – or beer or trains or anything else in short supply which, Vi supposed, was just about everything.
‘Just what do you mean, the London to Glasgow train terminated at Crewe?’ asked the leading hand of the two Wrens who stood at the counter. ‘Trains don’t do that.’
‘This one did. They told me to get off and try to get on the next train going north,’ protested the younger of the two, flushing pink.
‘Which happened to be my train,’ the tall blonde offered uneasily, ‘already two hours late from Plymouth.’
‘Which doubtless made you miss the Garvie Ferry connection,’ their inquisitor barked. ‘You’re trying to pull a fast one, aren’t you? You’ve been skylarking somewhere!’
‘We haven’t! It was the train, truly it was!’
‘All right then, your train was delayed. So what do you expect me to do about it? Lay on a destroyer and escort?’
‘N-no. We just thought you might okay our travel warrants. We should have been at Ardneavie ages ago.’
‘So you should.’ He read the green documents with pleasure. ‘And you’ll both be in the rattle when you get there, won’t you?’
Vi studied the bright red anchor on the man’s left sleeve. A hook in naval slang, his badge of rank. A very new hook and most probably the reason for his arrogance. He had a mean little mouth, she thought dispassionately. If she wasn’t mistaken, someone above had just kicked his backside and, true to naval tradition, he was passing the reprimand down. But nobody had the right to be that nasty; not even if his backside was black and blue. He should pick on someone his own size, not two young kids who were near to tears.
‘But we couldn’t help our trains being late. I thought you’d be able to put it right for us.’
‘Did you now? And you know what thought did, don’t you? Mind, if you were to say please very nicely, I just might decide to stamp your warrants …’
‘Might you just! Then you’d better decide to stamp mine while you’re on with it!’ Vi had heard enough. Elbowing her way to the counter, she slammed down her own piece of paper. ‘And be sharp about it!’
‘Hey! Hold on there!’ The leading hand flushed dark red. ‘You wait your turn and speak when you’re spoken to. I’m dealing with these two at the moment.’
‘Well, from now on you’re dealin’ with me as well, so get stampin’ or we’ll miss the next train an’ all,’ Vi hissed, meeting his gaze, preparing to stare him out. ‘Come on, mate. Shift yourself. There’s a war on, or hasn’t anybody told you? And while you’re about it, where can I get something to eat?’
‘There’s a Church of Scotland canteen a couple of blocks down.’ Tight-lipped, the man stamped and initialled the three warrants, his eyes not leaving hers.
‘Thanks,’ she glared back. ‘Next train to Garvie leaves at midnight, doesn’t it?’
‘Correct. Get off at Garvie Quay. The ferry’ll be tied up alongside. Overnight sailings are suspended for the duration but they’ll let you go aboard. Depart Garvie tomorrow morning, 0600 hours. ETA Craigiebur Pier 0800 hours.’ He said it reluctantly, repeating it parrot-fashion. ‘All right? Understood?’
‘Fine. That’s all we wanted, thanks. Sorry to have put you out.’ Vi picked up the three warrants, her mouth pursing with disapproval.
‘No need to take it like that. I was only having a bit of fun.’
‘There now. Fun, was it? Well, you could have fooled me, mate!’
With a final warning glare, Vi wished him goodnight, then threw open the door and marched out, head high. Only then did she allow herself a smile.
‘Well, fancy ’im with the ’ook, pulling rank like that then? Nasty little
